A/N: If you don't understand this it is intirely my fault. It's just an experiment with... intensity? Keep that in mind if any of you actually manage to read through all my terrible grammar. Losely based on Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare. It's in my profile. I love AkuRoku by the way. Love.
Drabble Drabble Drabble...
Diseased
How many times have those words echoed through these halls? Desperate writhing lying words.
Just to feel.
Just to feel.
Just to feel.
They'd lied to one another from the very start. When Axel, all fervor, all drug dead and relaxed, pealed his chest apart and claimed that something was within. There never ever was or would be, just a dull ache, a pain, a disease. He'd just-- there was something in the eyes of that little kid with the blond hair and the scowl, the pretty shiny toy. The minute he'd walked through the door, sterile turned to life and the walls breathed , "Roxas", and he'd breathed "Roxas", and the air died for the lie.
And the skin on his elbows was tight, and his checks were full of stale blood. And by god it felt good. It felt-
No, no, no. Not here where their were no shades, no blues, no greens, just black white and the nothings, the nobodies, the in-betweens.
He'd woke up that night, cold and hungry as always, only to stare at the walls and the ceiling that looked like him. He didn't look over at the dead boy beside him. Fifteen, he was only fifteen and all the things that Axel had done to him, and that he'd done to Axel were beyond gross and immoral and lifeless. All for the pain, all for the gross, they'd believed, they'd said. Because that's all there would ever be. Black, white, yes, no, never ever evers.
Once that was all that there was. Now all in his vision, in the ceiling, the walls, himself, was peachy skin, eternally youthful soft, that stretched the child's small frame pinching over elbows and collarbones. And baby cheeks with dead blood, and chest that held his lungs. He breathed like he shouldn't.
And Axel in all his wisdom of yes and no, and black and white, that he'd been allowed, he'd breathed, he'd lived off of for all of his useless backwards life of death, raised his useless empty body over the thing that his malfunctioning reason said he loved. It slept like a fool, like the useless furniture, he-it was, until the hands of a nothing rose over it's mouth and nose and pushed until the damnable thing opened it's pretty blue eyes. And looked at him. Looked at him! Like a doll, like a corpse, like the dead piece of furniture it was!
It didn't scramble for life or scream or struggle like a fool. There was death in those pretty blue eyes, those pretty, beautiful, entrancing, dead eyes. Axel'd wanted to scream to tell the damnable thing that it was dying but only refrained because he feared it would change nothing. A corpse that could not be brought back to life.
He removed his hands and laid back down, next to his heart, and looked to the ceiling hoping that it would anchor him to this safe rational place of the Nobodies. Nothing came, and they breathed together hard and rough, like they shouldn't.
There was nothing to hold on to, not any more, not when the world makes sense, and for the first time he was glad he never had a heart. He was glad that he couldn't feel.